


Party Favor

by firebreathing_bitchqueen



Series: Midnight at the Mandragora (and other stories) [1]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Birthday Smut, F/M, Gift Giving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27410005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebreathing_bitchqueen/pseuds/firebreathing_bitchqueen
Summary: He's had centuries of birthdays by now, but Nate is positive this is his favorite.
Relationships: Female Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Series: Midnight at the Mandragora (and other stories) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2002582
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	Party Favor

**Author's Note:**

> "Happy (belated) birthday to Agent Suavewell," she calls from her permanent residence in the Sin Cave.
> 
> This is *also* one of the short stories in my NaNoWriMo anthology this year. So, probably/hopefully more to come!

“So which year was your favorite?”

“That’s easy,” he chuckled. “This one. Until next year, when it’ll probably be that one.”

“Oh my _god_ , that’s cheating, you can’t just say _this year_ , that’s like saying you wished for ‘world peace’ when you blew out your birthday candles.”

Holland sat bolt upright, fast enough she almost knocked the book Nate had been reading out of his hands with her face, her own paperback flapping onto the library floor. She studied his face suspiciously. “You wished for world peace, didn’t you? You totally wasted a birthday wish on world peace.”

He laughed again, leaning down to retrieve her upended novel, and setting both books gently to one side. “I have a few questions.” He leaned forward to press a kiss on her nose, which she wrinkled in response, though she didn’t pull away.

“Is avoiding my _one_ question your tacit confirmation that you did, in fact, waste your birthday wish on world peace?”

“What’s the matter with wanting world peace?”

“Oh my _god.”_ Holland flopped back against the arm of the love seat, tilting her head back and groaning dramatically.

“And why,” he slid closer, bridging the scant distance between them to press another kiss on her face, “it’s a waste of a wish. Isn’t it my wish?”

She squinted up at him. “Quit deflecting.”

“Am I deflecting?”

“You are absolutely deflecting. You’re distracting me with kissing. Which, by the way, is also totally cheating?”

“I must have missed that item in Robert’s Rules of Birthdays.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Surely the Geneva Convention’s Birthday Corollary advises against calling someone ‘incorrigible’ on their birthday.”

“Not if they’re _being_ incorrigible. Which you totally are.” She sat up, twisting her legs up underneath her on the love seat, elbows resting on her knees, one of her stockinged feet toeing underneath Nate’s thigh.

He smiled at her, and Holland was reminded for the umpteenth time that she really needed a whole new set of vocabulary just for cataloging Nate’s smiles.

“Hey, how many words for _smile_ do you know?”

Different smile, dark brows furrowing slightly. “I’m sorry?”

“You know, just like a ballpark number. You know way more languages than I do.”

“I’ve had a few more years to occupy than you have.”

“So you have. Which makes it even more of a cheap shot that you picked _this_ year —”

“— until next year,” he interjected calmly.

“— Excuse me, _this_ year, _for now_ , as your favorite birthday.”

“Well, you didn’t ask me for my favorite birthday,” he reminded her, still maintaining the sort of easy, languid poise that Holland thought perhaps was a genetic trait, and that’s why she’d never mastered it.

“My mistake, your favorite _year_. What is your favorite birthday, anyway?”

“This one. Until —”

“— until next year,” she finished, rolling her eyes, although the effect was somewhat dampened by her wide grin. “Okay, fine. You’re absolutely right: it’s _your_ birthday, you make the call. Especially after you already had to suffer through the indignity of a party full of people who love you.”

Different smile again, flicker of something, there and gone so fast she could’ve — might’ve — probably had imagined it.

“You have to tell me why, though. You know that, right? It’s the obvious question.”

She cocked her head, still grinning at him, still teasing. _Nothing to read into here, folks._

He was still smiling back at her, too, as he almost always was. Easily. Sweetly. And: differently, too.

Not teasing, though. She was pretty confident on that point.

“Can’t you guess?”

“Hmm.” She drawled, exaggeratedly chewed her lower lip in mock thought, though she didn’t miss the way his gaze flicked to her mouth, the slow drag of her teeth across her lip.

“Is this the year you finally located all the books Felix ‘borrowed’?”

“It’s very generous of you to refer to Felix’s…literary re-appropriations as _borrowing._ ”

Flash of teasing smile, just there, and then gone, softening back to Different.

“This one — this year, this birthday — had you,” he said simply. Like he didn’t know as well as she did (possibly better, how would she know? She only had human senses.) what happened to her chest when he said things like that, casually setting her off like a bomb. Like one of the insane, confetti-filled party poppers Felix had bought way too many of and then insisted they all use the lot a few hours ago, just as he’d insisted Nate was absolutely, under-no-circumstances allowed to hole up in his library on his birthday.

***

“Reflect tomorrow,” the youngest vampire had insisted. “It’s not like you have a shortage of time, Natey. Spend your whole birthday month reflecting. Your birthday _day_ demands fun.”

“And if a quiet day is my idea of fun?” Nate had asked.

Felix looked both appalled and deeply offended by the idea. And then he’d texted Holland.

> FELIX: Natey won’t let me throw him a birthday party.
> 
> HOLLAND: I’m shocked that would stop you.
> 
> FELIX: You could help me! He won’t say no to you.
> 
> HOLLAND: He might.
> 
> A string of eye-rolling emojis appeared on her phone screen. Then —
> 
> FELIX: hollllllllland
> 
> HOLLAND: You’re lucky I like you.
> 
> FELIX: you ADORE me
> 
> HOLLAND: yeah, yeah. Just promise you’ll let me handle the cake.

In the end — after Felix sent Holland a string of sparkly heart, cake, and unicorn emojis — they’d reached a compromise: Felix would throw a small party at the warehouse. And then Felix would leave Nate in peace for the remainder of his birthday. Just to be safe, Holland had also texted Mason to ensure Felix didn’t forget about the “in peace” part in the wake of his celebratory enthusiasm.

> HOLLAND: hey, can you please make sure Felix remembers he promised Nate alone time after this party thing?
> 
> MASON: are you asking because you’re just thoughtful or should I hang a sock on the door?
> 
> HOLLAND: Mason.
> 
> HOLLAND: if I say it’s a sock situation will you please contain Felix’s festivities?
> 
> MASON: k
> 
> HOLLAND: potassium was always my favorite element :)

And, so far, Felix (with or without Mason’s help, she wasn’t sure) had kept up his end of the bargain. Well, more or less, anyway: his idea of “small party” had included enough confetti for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade, and Holland was pretty sure she would be finding glitter on her person for the next month. But he had left them alone. Not without several suggestive comments and waggled eyebrows, of course. But alone.

They’d been curled into one of the more secluded reading nooks in the library for the better part of the last hour, talking a little, kissing a little, and mostly just being alone, together. The mostly-silence was expansive, shimmer-veiled and warm, and Holland’s whole body felt loose and soft. Eventually, she’d moved from leaning against Nate to stretch luxuriously across the brocade settee, her head resting in his lap, one of his hands idly carding through her hair.

At least, until she’d asked about his favorite birthday and discovered he was a world-peace-wisher.

A world-peace-wisher who casually dropped the kind of romantic lines Holland would have openly mocked in any other scenario except the one in which things like _this birthday had you in it_ were being said to _her_ , _about_ her, sweetly and earnestly, by someone like Nate. Not even someone _like_ Nate, just actual Nate. (There was _no one_ actually _like_ Nate, of that she was certain.)

“How are you even real?” She hadn’t realized the thought had come out of her mouth until she saw his smile expand, somehow. Maybe her Taxonomy of Nate’s Smiles would tag this one as “Saturday sunshine nap” or something equally warm and soft and hypnotic. The kind of cat-pawed, drowsy warmth that tugged you into a half-sleep before you knew it was happening, only realizing once you were leaning into the feeling of sun on the backs of your eyelids.

“I’m sure there’s a lot of complicated science involved in anyone being ‘real’, if millennia of philosophical debates are anything to go on,” he said softly, one hand gently holding one of her ankles, thumb rubbing along the knobby bone through her sock, just above where the rest of her foot was tucked beneath his thigh.

For a moment, they just looked at each other. She felt an odd, suspicious little pressure in her ribcage, like her chest was expanding and clenching at the same time. She needed to think. Needed to process what exactly was happening somewhere between her stomach and throat.

“I’m sure,” she agreed, and caught herself starting to say something else. What else, she had no idea. Granted, it wasn’t unusual for thoughts to fly out of her head before she knew she was thinking them, but right now felt…different. Delicate, and dangerous. Did flame-drawn moths recognize the danger of candles or only the seduction?

_Jesus,_ she needed to get her shit together.

_Later_ , she decided. When she wasn’t wrapped in some kind of gauzy liminal bubble. Later, when she wasn’t likely to accidentally process out loud. Later. She would puzzle out whatever feeling her body was trying to communicate later. _Later is for thinking. Now is for…_

She glanced down, then back up at Nate. Let her smile slant into something different, too.

“You know,” she mused, casual and indolent, “I still haven’t given you _my_ gift yet. If you’re open to one more celebratory thing. It’s no party, but it’s not exactly ‘quiet reflection,’ either.” She grinned, arched a brow, waited.

He opened his mouth as if to protest, but then her fingers darted out to press lightly against his mouth, and he looked more pleased and intrigued than anything.

“Okay, so.” She paused, as if collecting her thoughts. “Um. You have to close your eyes.”

He quirked a brow but obeyed. She exhaled.

“Hands, too. Cover your eyes. Um, please.”

Nate’s mouth twitched, but he did as she asked, long fingers covering his closed eyes.

“No peeking,” she said, rising slowly from the couch.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said solemnly, although the effect was somewhat diminished by the persistent tug of amusement at the corners of his mouth.

_Okay. Okay. Objects in motion stay in motion. Keep moving._

Quietly (which, upon further consideration, was probably unnecessary, given his supernatural hearing), Holland padded over to the little side table where she’d set her messenger bag and a relatively nondescript (but very shiny) gift bag, handles tied securely with looping curlicues of gold ribbon.

_Staying in motion. Don’t think, just do._

_We’re really doing this?_ The question seemed to come from some distant part of her mind, perhaps the sole, sane piece of it, a tiny cartoon version of herself tucked into some corner of her brain, watching with thinly veiled…well, if not _disapproval_ , per se, certainly anxious skepticism.

_Yes, and also shut_ up, she commanded tiny cartoon Holland. Then wondered if she should be concerned about having this structured a debate with herself, as if she were two separate people. She wasn’t positive, but she didn’t think such self-fragmentation was indicative of a healthy, sane person.

_Don’t think, just do._

And, she had to admit, (before reminding herself she wasn’t reminding herself of anything, she was _just doing_ ) this was kind of fun. A little anxiety-inducing, a little ridiculous. But a little fun, nonetheless. And the really fun parts were yet to come.

She unwound the ribbon from the gift bag handles and set to work. “No peeking!” She called over her shoulder. Just in case.

She heard him shift at the rustle of paper, at the soft scrape of a zipper undone. “No peeking.”

“No peeking,” he repeated, clearly amused but nonetheless acquiescent.

“Okay,” she said finally. Shifted. A crinkly rustling followed her movement.

“Okay?” His hands shifted, but stayed over his eyes.

“Okay,” she confirmed.

He lowered his hands, amusement still clear on his face as his eyes slowly blinked open. Then the amusement faded, the glimmer in his eyes sharpened, struck-flint sparked into something else entirely, something almost feral in its intent, unwavering focus.

Her eyes stayed fixed on his face. His eyes roamed: fixed on _her_ but not just her face.

Holland stood before him, half — more than half — naked, wrapped up like a present. She’d fashioned a particularly ineffectual skirt out of a garland of crepe paper streamers she’d tied around her waist, and had looped a length of extra-wide ribbon into a kind of halter top, swaths of silky pink fabric criss-crossed over her chest. The curly gold ribbons from the gift bag handles had been re-purposed, too, and were tied into a festive golden plume on her head, the makeshift headband blending into her pale hair.

She didn’t bother asking him, as she often teased, which of them had the faster heartbeat this time. It was definitely, unquestionably her. “Happy birthday,” she murmured, lips curving into a lopsided, nervous grin.

“Indeed,” he breathed on a sharp exhale, and she felt inordinately pleased that, for once, she’d managed to catch him off-guard rather than the other way around. Her smile widened, and she gave a little twirl, paper streamers flitting around her bare thighs, before crossing the few feet between them to where Nate sat on the little sofa. He was already rising, pulling her toward him with a heated smile, eyes dark and warm and _hungry,_ and then their mouths fell into each other and they were stumbling back onto the love seat together.

“So,” she drawled against his lips, knees bracketing his hips on the sofa, straddling his thighs, “Are you more of a rip-the-paper or slowly un-tape kind of present opener?” She had one hand tangled in the hair at his nape, but she slid the other slowly down his chest, feeling a dark coil of heat in her belly as her hand brushed over his and then lower, and she felt the shivered hitch of breath. She palmed him through his jeans, groaned at the firm warmth under her hand.

His mouth against her ear, the flick of his tongue along the shell, voice low and honeyed as he murmured, “I have always found unwrapping gifts slowly to be infinitely more pleasurable.” His hands skated along her sides, fingers sliding just along but not quite under the strips of ribbon laced over her torso. When he dragged his hand up the strand of ribbon covering one of her breasts, his thumb sweeping with deliberate indolence over her nipple under the pink satin, she arched against him, sliding her hand back up his torso, fingers fumbling under his layers of shirts to rest against the warm plane of his stomach.

“You wear too many layers,” Holland mumbled into his hair, felt his lips stretch into a smile against the base of her throat, where he’d been nosing around the ribbon looped behind her neck, pressing warm, lingering kisses along her skin.

“I’d say you wear too few, but given current circumstances, I don’t feel I can complain.” He murmured between kisses, one hand sliding teasingly high along her inner thigh, fingers of the other stroking along her spine, toying with the ends of the ribbon dangling there, playing with them, but not undoing them.

She slid her hand further under his shirt, rolled her hips, pushed against the hand on her thigh, his fingers so very close to where she wanted them, where she needed them.

“So impatient,” he said against her skin. “It’s _my_ birthday.”

Holland slid the hand under his shirt back down to tug at the button of his jeans. “I want you.” And she did, she _always_ did, so much more than she’d anticipated. Every time she touched him, tasted him, fucked him, she felt insatiable.

“You have me,” he whispered, and tugged free the silky pink bow tied behind her back.

***

“I cannot believe,” Nate said later, when they were still tangled in each other on the sofa, his mouth soft against her face, his voice quiet and low, not quite a whisper, just a superscript version of his normal voice, dialed down, “you wanted to argue that this could not be my favorite birthday.”


End file.
